


No Sleep for the Dead

by QueenVee



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-War, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Hunger Games Tributes, Katniss Peeta and everyone else follows, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Linear Narrative, Post Revolution, Post-Games (Hunger Games), Rue Cato Thresh and Clove are Main Characters, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover Missions, lots of crackships, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenVee/pseuds/QueenVee
Summary: They didn't ask to be here.For all intents and purposes, after the hell they'd been put through in the past 72 hours alone, that should have been reason enough for everyone to simply let them rest in peace.But their world is too wicked and twisted to let them just simply slip away...They didn't ask to be here. But dammit if they were going to be - they were going to do it on their terms this time around.- or -All tributes from the 74th games had been revived by the Capitol. The twisted plan? To force them to fight in the war against the rebels. Things don't go according to plan, however, when Snow's grandaughter herself leads them to join the Mockingkay rebellion and participate instrumentally during the war in the victory versus the Capitol.Yet 6 years later, a guilt-stricken Rue reveals herself to Katniss after an accidental run-in sends her spiraling into a psychotic episode. Not only is Katniss shocked to see a very much alive adult Rue at her doorstep, but even more shocked to learn that all tributes from the 74th Games are alive and well. They've all seemed to have changed...but Panem, unfortunately, has not.- * -
Relationships: Cato/Rue (Hunger Games), Foxface/Glimmer (Hunger Games), Gale Hawthore/Gwendolyn Snow, Glimmer/Marvel (Hunger Games), Haymitch Abernathy/Effie Trinket, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark, Marvel/Ezra | District 3 Tribute (Hunger Games), Thresh/Clove (Hunger Games)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	No Sleep for the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Yeaaaaaaaaah.....I've been sitting on this for a while.
> 
> Like.
> 
> A long while...
> 
> But it's time it's gotten some air time.
> 
> Hope you guys like it - it's full of language, violence, love, espionage, dark comedy, AND mental breakdowns. Good stuff, yeah? lol either way - enjoy!
> 
> BTW - all characters have been aged up (as this is a future fic) So the youngest characters - Rue & Clove - are 19 and 21.
> 
> Let me know what ya'll think :)
> 
> \- QueenVee

When she comes to, she opens her eyes to a blurry world of pure white.

White so overwhelmingly blinding that it fills all the nooks and crannies of her vision.

It's a welcome sigh of relief.

White means heaven. Heaven means finality. Finality means no pain. 

At least, that's what she had been taught during her brief 13 years in the world of the living.

A part of her is disturbed by how willing she is to settle into the end of her short life. At how easily - almost happily - she accepts no longer being. 

But before she can embrace the idea of never having to be in pain again; her lungs contract and fill with air, touch and sensation return to her limbs, and her vision clears and sharpens to reveal a textured ceiling - not an endless sea of white.

The staccato beeping of a medical machine from her side only reinforces the startlingly, unbelievable truth - this is not heaven. 

She slowly sits up in _her hospital bed?_ Yes, a hospital bed - and surveys the pure white room - now horrific instead of calming - with a fear she hadn't felt since first being dropped into the arena.

The date seems so far away, but she knows it could have only been mere moments ago. Panic climbs viciously within her; beating against her ribs, whirring inside of her chest, and clawing it's way up to her throat. 

Who put her here? Why was she here? _How_ was she here?

She remembers the pain - so deep and guttural - as Marvel's spear split into her. Remembers falling into Katniss's arms, crying and scared because she didn't want to die yet. Shocked at how quickly and quietly it all seemed to end. But was that all just a lie? Another illusion of the Capitol's games?

Was this the next step after 'losing" in the arena?

Or worse - was she still there?!

It takes her a moment to realize she's hyperventilating and she only does because her shallow breathing now matches her racing heartbeat reflected on the machine beside her. Both increase rapidly when she notices the multiple IVs and wires attached to her hands and wrist and chest and legs and -no, this is _not_ heaven. 

Not even close.

Because somehow, against all odds, she is still alive.

She clutches her head into her hands and screams. 

* * *

“How far until we arrive at 8?”

Cato checks the silver band on his wrist, then gruffly answers “About another hour and a half,”

“Hmmm,” his partner hums in mild irritation, crossing her arms and leaning back into cushions behind her. Cato chuckles underneath his breath as he watches her glare at the moving scenery outside her window.

She hates trains. Hated them when she took her first ride in one six years ago, and still hates them today. Maybe it had to do with the fact that every time she got on one, death wasn't too far around the corner; with said first train ride resulting in her own death, of course.

Yeah, that could have something to do with it.

Cato reaches out to his partner's knee and gives it a firm squeeze of assurance. She throws a half-hearted glance in his direction before turning back to the window to pout.

“Relax, it'll be over before you know it,” They both wince at his poor choice of words. He gives her another small squeeze before trying again. “You know what I mean Rue...we're almost there. You've done this 17,”

“ _19_ ,”

“18 times before,” he compromises, dismissing the look she shoots his way. “You're a goddamn pro,” he gives her a challenging smirk. “So quit pussying out act like one: _man_ up,”

Rue scoffs at his audacious attempt to get her head back in the game and mutters a quiet "Right...," underneath her breath before poking his hand away from her leg.

He watches her for a moment, in limbo of her reaction, a tiny feeling of uncertainty hanging in the back of his throat. Until he sees it: a bare hint of a smile curling on her lips that she quickly tries to hide by biting her fingernails, a charming vice that always lets him know he's in the clear. Satisfied, he leans back into his seat with his own grin of victory on his face.

He knows that _she_ _knows_ he means well, that actually comforting people was simply not a skill set he has. It was very much still a foreign concept to him. One that had to be learned, continues to be learned every day, especially in his partnership with the younger more delicate Rue Callen.

She and Cato had been partners in the field - the Undercover Capitol Resistance or UCR - for nearly 3 years now. He was rash, quick-tempered, and acted first and asked questions later. Though he had tempered down volumes from what he was years ago, his blunt honesty and brash dialect were simply the things that made him...him. And she had accepted that knowingly a long time ago, back when she had asked purposefully to be paired up with him after he yelled all of those things in her face 30 seconds prior.

“You'll have to take your second dose soon,” she says looking at him from out of the corner of her eye. “Your hair is still pretty brown, but your blue is definitely showing,” her fingers gesture towards her own eyes for emphasis.

For missions like these, it was imperative for their disguises to be nothing short of perfection. Jeannie Catrell, the "foxy" tribute from District 5, was the one who concocted what she titled the Chameleon Compound - an elixir scientifically mutated from a basic hair dye formula that, when injected directly into the bloodstream, could change a person's eye and/or hair color almost immediately for approximately 8 to 12 hours. Though it seemed a minor factor in hiding someone's identity it was a solidifying one nevertheless. As learned in a recon mission gone bad 2 years back, wigs could be pulled and contacts could be...removed.

These disguises were not only for the success of the operation but for their identities to remain concealed in the fragile post-war world around them. As far as anyone in Panem knew, all participants of the 74th Hunger Games - minus Mr. and Mrs. Mellark - had been dead and gone a long time ago. Initially, this wasn't an issue for UCR operatives since protocol demanded missions be handled either underground, airborne, or after hours; all easy situations to vanish from undetected if necessary. But as the years went on the nature of their jobs changed.

Neo-Capitolists began evolving into something more furtive, intelligent, and charismatic. They began popping up in the world as teachers, politicians, entertainers, even law-enforcers. No longer could the UCR operate from within the shadows. It burned more than a few of the old tributes nerves (Rue can still hear Clove's complaining in the back of her mind) however, some matters called for just as much face time and publicity as stealth and anonymity.

Cato meets her gaze and nods his thanks. “You may want to take yours as well, blondie. All I see are those big brown eyes that turn my pockets inside out every time we make a trip topside...,” He grimaces as she beames at him beatifically. “Stop that,”

“Stop what?” she replies in mock innocence, pulling a small leather clutch from her backpack and into her lap.

She unzips it to reveal 4 fresh needles pocketed on one side and 12 tiny vials of colorful liquids pocketed in the other. Cato reaches out his hand as Rue drops one needle and two brick-red vials into his possession. He gives her a small frown as he pulls the cap off of the needle, sticks it into one of the vials, and begins to fill it to the allotted amount. “You know what, Little Bit...”

Rue purses her lips as she does the same with her own needle and vial. “You know I hate it when you call me that...,” she snaps back with a touch of heat. Cato has the good sense to look mildly ashamed, but his only response to her is a noncommittal grunt of irritation.

“Quit being a sour puss and tie me up,” she holds out her arm and a dishrag expectantly.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he smirks saucily at her as she rolls her eyes.

“Because you haven't said _that_ one before,”

“Well, you haven't stopped asking so I must be doing something right - _OW!_ ”

“Just wrap my freaking arm, please!Not everyone can have big bulging veins like you Roid Rage...,”

Gently, and with much cursing underneath his breath, Cato takes her arm and ties a snug tourniquet below the crook of her elbow. Wordlessly, he gestures for Rue to hand over her ampoule as enough pressure builds in her veins to allow one thin blue vine to rise above the rest on her latte colored complexion.

“I can do it...,” she offers.

“I know you can,” he responds, his eyes never raising from his work. He presses down lightly with his thumb on the chosen vein, forcing it to elevate even more above the skin. Then with the finesse of a man who has done it a thousand times over, he twirls the needle between his thumb and forefinger before bringing it down to penetrate the skin with no hesitation.

Rue lets out a slight hiss at the prick of pain. “Still not used to that. Don't think I ever will be,”

The two watch as the emerald green liquid drains from the injection and into her bloodstream. “You get used to anything with time,” Cato says in a low, thoughtful tone, his thumb stroking the inside of her forearm absentmindedly.

“Still haven't got used to you,” His partner teases.

“Hmph,” He looks up to survey her shifting eyes: her irises already sweeping from dark chocolate to honey hazel. In a few moments, they would set into the bold viridian green genetically predisposed to most females born of District 4. “The feeling's mutual,”

Before they can bicker any further the silver bangles on both of their wrist light up in notification. A couple of swipes later and the portrait view of a redhead with forest green eyes and fox-like features fill the small screens of their communicators.

“Good Morning Breene and Callen. I trust thus far it's going quite well?” Her tone of voice is soft and delicate but her sophisticated capitol accent is loud and clear.

“As well as it can get, Jeannie,” Cato answers, preparing for his first shot of _Red Chameleon_.

“Morning Foxy! Prim and proper as always, I see?” Rue pipes in with a grand smile.

“Prim and proper, indeed,” she responds with a demure smile of her own. “Ready for your mission brief?”

“Fire away, doll,” Rue responds brightly while flipping her communicator into hologram mode. A reflected screen about the size of a small television slides up between her and Cato like a privacy curtain and all eyes are on Jeannie as she updates them of the assignment ahead.

* * *

"What are you pouting about?"

The young woman in question pauses, turns to glance and glare over her shoulder at her bulky intruder, then turn back to the task at hand. Clearly, she didn't want to be bothered by anyone. If her going out of her way to visit the target-practice gym on the far side of the island wasn't apparent enough, then she didn't know what was. The drive alone was a good 30-minutes from the village. And yet...

"I'm not pouting," she says unconvincingly, spinning the butterfly blade in her grip a few times.

"Oh? You're not?" The intruder asks again as he crosses his arms, leans against the doorway, and eyes the leather satchel on the ground. The small artillery of knives at her feet begged to differ...

_Not pouting my ass._

"Nope," the woman replies defiantly before taking a step forward, spinning on one foot, and perfectly throwing her butterfly knife into the Bullseye 20-feet ahead of her. "I'm not,"

"Clove,"

"Thresh,"

The exhaustive-irritation in both their voices clearly reflects that this isn't the first time they've had this conversation. The "if something is bothering you, you don't have to lie about it and throw knives at something for 8 hours" conversation. Personally, Clove didn't see what the big deal was.

At least the targets weren't human.

Thresh slowly makes his way to behind her as she prepares to throw again at a new target. He watches her for a moment, noticing her back and shoulders stiff with indignation, then bends down to pick up one of her many knives from her precious collection.

"You know what I'm gonna say," he mutters as he flicks the butterfly knife open with only half of Clove's grace. Sad really, considering they we're going into their 2nd year of being partners. You'd think he'd learn some style on osmosis alone.

"And you know what I'm going to say, which means," Clove begins before spinning to hit the new target - Bullseye again. Thresh whistles in appreciation as she turns to face him head-on.

"We don't have to have this conversation," Her grin is empty as she raises her hand for him to hand over the knife in his possession. He matches her expression and holds it up slightly outside of her reach. 

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she laughs at his audacity. "You act like that's actually gonna stop me from getting it,"

But Thresh doesn't back down, wouldn't be worth being her partner if he ever did. "That may be true, but I was hoping you'd go the nice route for a change and just tell me what's on your mind instead of punching me where the sun don't shine, hm?"

Clove wasn't exactly the social type - never really had been - and to be honest, neither was Thresh. He preferred to observe most situations in silence and only speak his piece when necessary, a factor that made his input always more impactful whenever he did. 

However, where Thresh didn't speak because he was organizing his thoughts, Clove didn't speak because she was too busy already putting her fist in someone's face. 

The girl had 2 speeds, what could he say?

And though there had been times during missions where that was exactly what was needed, Thresh (and Vera from the Psych Eval wing) found it important to work on adding a couple more options to her main menu. 

The option they've been working on for the past 6 months? Saying your feelings out loud, especially if they're not easy ones.

Clove scoffs at him, clearly annoyed, and puts her hands on her hips. Her hazel eyes vibrate into him as she debates on whether to actually give in and say what's on her mind, or dismiss him altogether. (The social skill they mastered before moving on to the one at hand)

Suddenly, her hair's no longer in a messy bun but falling softly around her face and she's not a few feet away but pressed intimately against him, right underneath his chin - the scent of sweat and lavender infiltrating his senses. Her arms wrap around his waist, pulling their bodies even closer together, and she smiles up at him from under lowered lashes. 

_Oh._

"I said the nice route," Thresh mutters, looking down at her with raised eyebrows. "Not the naughty route,"

Clove smizes dangerously at him and removes an arm from around his waist to slowly drag her palm across his chest.

"Who said it can't be both?"

This was another new... _thing_ that Clove had been working on, in her own time of course. He isn't sure exactly why it happened, but all he knows is during a mission in District 6 a few months ago - somewhere between her drop kicking a guard trying to take him out from behind and his returning the favor by knocking out the other guard trying to choke her to death, she decided "Hey, I think I wanna kiss you," and did exactly that. Literally tackled him to the ground and started macking on him on the spot.

And well...It's been happening sporadically ever since.

He still not sure what he wants to say about it (if anything at all) and Clove isn't going out of her way to bring it up either. But he knows one thing; making out with Clove is 1,000,000x's better than fighting with Clove, so if this means he's "taking one for the team" then so be it. There are worse ways to lose.

Thresh sighs in defeat as both of his hands somehow find their way to her waist, his fingers flexing were the band of her leggings and her skin meet. The butterfly knife is secured tightly between her left hip and his right hand and she giggles when he tightens his grip in frustration.

"Clove...,"

"Thresh..?"

Dramatically he drops his forehead to meet hers, looking her in the eyes to ensure he has her attention.

"I do not approve of this. Especially since we both know you're pouting because Breene and Callen got the job you've been vetting after for the past 2 weeks -"

As Clove screws-up her face in preparation to tell him off, he gently squeezes her hip again to pacify her.

"But - I don't mind this route either...as long as it ends in you actually talking about how pissed off you are later. I mean it. Deal?"

It takes her a moment but after a while she nods, grips his face in determination, and hisses. "Deal. Now shut the fuck up and kiss me," 

Thresh sighs for the 10th time that day, but he does do exactly what he's been told.

* * *

It's hard to believe it, but somehow this dingy little village and ragtag crew have managed to make it.

She often finds herself looking back to the beginning - to when every other day there was meltdown or mental episode or just straight-up chaos that needed to be handled. Everyone has this twisted idea that revival is a beautiful, ethereal process full of self-redemption and gratitude. But all that Gwen can remember is being able to tell her resident agents apart by their screaming or crying alone. That's how often she heard them. That's how much pain they had dealt with - every single one of them.

But now, 6 years later - they weren't just existing bodies waiting for a soul. They were people - her people - who were happy and strong and functioning and fighting. They were heroes, though they would never admit as such. And they were thriving beyond anyone's expectations.

"Commander?"

Gwen turns away from the floor-length window of her office to yield her attention to her secretary at the door. She's a tiny thing from District 9 with curly red hair, pale skin, and pleasant features. "Yes, Soccora,"

"Mr. Hawthorne is here to see you,"

"Right, send him in," Gwen responds, then adds with a placating smile "And please, once again - Gwen is just fine,"

Soccora blushes, nods, and flurries away to fetch the visitor in the lobby.

Only moments later does the broad form Gale Hawthorne make his entrance. "Commander Gwendolyn," he greets with a slight bow of the head.

Gwen sighs deeply as she takes her seat behind her old wooden desk. "Good Lord, not you too," she flicks her hand in the direction of the chair opposite her. "Just call me Gwen. Short and sweet. Please, have a seat,"

Gale just gives a stiff nod, then does exactly as instructed. Shocker.

"Thank you for coming. I pray the trip wasn't too rocky?"

"Not at all, Commander," Gwen rolls her eyes in silent protest. "A little windy, but commercial is always a nice change of pace compared to fighter jets,"

"Yes, I can imagine," Gwen responds, lacing her fingers in front of her on the desktop. "How long will you be staying with us?"

"Just for the day, Commander. I've business at the Capitol tomorrow at 800 hours,"

"Yes, of course, you do," Gwen says in a teasing tone, no doubt completely missed by the man, as she leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. "Always ever the solder first," 

Gale nods again, unperturbed. "Indeed, Commander. Always,"

The tip of her long, icy-blond braid tickles the bottom of her chair as she observes her guest.

Gale Hawthorne - a man who had been through hell and unfortunately lost his way back. All for the love of a woman never to be his. Yes, Gwen understood his stoicism and lack of any emotion towards anything. Probably understood more than most. However, it didn't make interacting with him any less...frosty.

"Right," she says. "On to business then, I suppose," Without moving, she presses a command onto her desk and a hologram flies up in the space between them. On the screen are 3 faces; 2 of them Gale recognize as members of the New Panem Council, crossovers from the old world they've been keeping tabs on whom pledged themselves to New Panem and it's evolving ways. Whether out of fear from being tried for treason or not, no one can technically say but surely impose. He doesn't know the 3rd person by name, but he does look familiar nonetheless. 

"Shown here are Councilwoman Norma Daggett and Councilman Teo Kearney. As you know, we've been monitoring them and their activities for some time. For a while now, we've seen nothing major on their daily surveillance reports. However, at 1400 hours 3 days ago, both went completely off the grid. Not one major transaction, check-in, or cellular ping for 72 hours. That is, until...,"

She taps another set of invisible buttons on her desk until the photos of Daggett and Kearney minimize as the photo of the unknown man enlarges. "Both were seen "visiting" the residence of this man right here, Arthur Vallejo. Neither of them in top condition, as you can see, when they did," Gwen swipes her hand mid-air to reveal a muted clip of a roughed-up Daggett and Kearney being "escorted" into what must be the opulent home of Mr. Vallejo.

Gale returns his attention to the face of Arthur Vallejo - his features sleek and airy like a model. His naturally tanned skin, goldenrod hair, and cool blue eyes are a dead giveaway that he's Capitol born - but there's something else about him that's familiar. It's in the way his lips quirk at the corners like something is always funny...

"Forgive me, Commander - but why do we think Mr. Vallejo is the problem. Isn't it more likely he's being used by a higher power instead?" Gale inquires "Clearly he's Capitol-born, so an outright bastard if that's all to go on. But I doubt he's a bastard with enough gall to make public trouble quite like this,"

"Well Gale, that's because I know this bastard," Gwen says with no amount of joy in her tone, then swipes her hand again to reveal a photo from about 15 years prior. Gale's eyes widen as he comes face to face with a teenage Gwen and Arthur, cheek to cheek, in matching Santa hats and matching smiles.

"Because unfortunately, he's _my_ bastard of a brother,"


End file.
